


One Way Out

by GhostHost



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Captive, Capture, Dom/sub Undertones, Double Agents, Dubious Consent, Finger Sucking, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Light Gun Play, Mentions of Death, NSFW, Restraints, Sort Of, Soul Bond, Spanking, Sparkmates, faked non-con, pain play
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-09
Updated: 2018-01-09
Packaged: 2019-03-02 16:51:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,102
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13322406
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GhostHost/pseuds/GhostHost
Summary: Ratchet's been caught. Brought aboard Deadlock's ship and made to submit.Thing is, it might have been on purpose.





	One Way Out

**Author's Note:**

> Deadlock and Ratch are building up to sex in like, two/three different fics of mine and I just wanted to them be there already dammit!! This was the result.
> 
> Warnings: This is more in tune with my grittier stuff than anything I think I’ve written prior for this pair. Some serious (even if faked) dub-con/non-con, with force, exhibitionism, (valve) spanking, finger play/finger fucking, light gun play, light pain play, restraints (of a sort, not physical ones) and a sub/dom flavoring sprinkled on top. There’s also a lot of angst, pining, mentions of death, and these two idiots being themselves.
> 
> And if none of that was enough to seal the deal, they also get super sappy with each other at the end. 
> 
> This one’s got a lot of things going on, so if there’s anything else you want placed in the warnings/tags throw me a comment and I’ll add it up there!

Tie me up and take me over till you're done  
Till I'm done   
You've got me fiendin' and I'm ready to blow

\--Simon Curtis, Flesh

 

* * *

 

The others were dead.

Ratchet didn’t even need to see the bodies to know--he’d seen the hits both had taken. He was the lone survivor being dragged--literally--onto the Decepticon ship. Down through the halls, and thrown by two massive fighters into the command room.

He hit the ground hard enough to skid, his paint screeching as it peeled off in long strips. The medic’s whole body throbbed, more than half his plating crumbled from his own fight against the ‘Cons. That they had taken him conscious had been a stroke of luck and good aim---a shot from someone’s stun gun going wide in just the right way.

He’d already regained feeling in his limbs. It wouldn’t be long before he could move--but that didn't matter now. Not when they had him, face down, mechs snickering and catcalling as he lay helpless.

They wouldn’t kill him. Couldn’t, with the crisis facing both sides of the war due to the lack of medics left--but Ratchet had read his own wanted notice. “Captured alive” didn’t mean “uninjured.”

Still. They wouldn’t risk too much. If Ratchet exaggerated enough, if he bought enough time...

Footsteps rang out, silencing the noise on the bridge so abruptly Ratchet _knew_ someone from high command had come aboard. A dangerous field flicked against his, filled the air with undeniable command.

_Definitely_ high command, then.   

He shouldn’t have felt relieved, but he was. Your average Decepticon was unpredictable, and Ratchet had never been good at hiding his own aggression--but high command? He was familiar with most of those mechs. Familiarity bred confidence--he could handle them. Even if it was Soundwave. Pits, even if it was _Starscream!_

Dark armor fell into view, the steps reverberating against the floor as their owner circled him lazily.

“Well this is a gift.” A dark, overly familiar voice purred, washing the Autobot with dread and instant, immediate regret . “Hello, Ratchet.”

The medic fought a snarl, because damn it all, he’d cursed himself!

“Drift.” He spat onto the floor.

“We’ve been over this.” The General said, sinking into a crouch near him. “It’s Dead-” He tapped the medic on the helm as he spoke, emphasizing the syllable. “-Lock.” The taps weren’t with his fingers--didn’t feel like fingers, and Ratchet had just long enough to register that Deadlock had a gun pointed to his head before the mech _fired it._

Audios screamed, feedback shrieking static. The world went bright for a click--the floor shaking right after. It took Ratchet a moment to check over himself over when it was done, register that the only pain he felt was in his offlined audios.

Whatever Drift had fired at, it hadn’t been him.

Something to be thankful for, even if he struggled to recover, feedback ringing painfully in his head.

Two hands abruptly gripped Ratchet’s side. He had no time to protest, not since he’d been effectively stunned twice. He was hauled up, flipped over. Despite his thin build Deadlock had some serious strength to his body, when he chose to use it. Flipping a combat medic over like that was no easy feat, and it wasn’t lost on Ratchet that the ‘Con was making a show of this.

The fact that his hands lingered, stroking and playing with the edges of Ratchet’s plating wasn’t lost on him either.

The ‘Con knew Ratchet couldn’t hear. Was toying with him until Ratchet’s audios came back online. The touches spread as he waited, looping over his chest and down.

Lower.

And lower.

The destination was obvious but Deadlock made a game of it anyway, teasing the edges of his prey’s plating. Dipping fingers into seems, ghosting over pieces of protoform.

They both knew when Ratchet’s audio’s finally decided to return to partial hearing, because the CMO suddenly realized he was swearing.

He stopped, just as fingers landed on his array cover.

“Open,” Deadlock snarled, his voice clear through the fading static, “or I will rip it off.”

Ratchet’s optics pierced the Generals, a defiant expression on his face.

“No.” He said.

Ratchet’s words twisted into a howl as Deadlock pulled his covering back--slowly. Tortuously slowly, until the latches strained and it neared its breaking point.

_“Yield.”_ Deadlock demanded. The ‘Con’s voice was filled with lust and dark with a promise Ratchet didn’t want to see through.

He triggered his panel to open, hating himself for it. His hands curled, fingers clenched together so tight they scrapped paint, determined to fight somehow even though he _couldn’t._

He told himself he could take the pain--could’ve taken the pain!--if he wasn’t such a damn _coward._

_‘You deserve this.’_ His own voice informed him, bringing reminders of the mechs who’d lost their lives to the forefront of his processor. _‘You_ deserve _to hurt.’_

He agreed, but knew he couldn’t be punished here. Not by Deadlock. So he ignored it.

Blocked it out.

Just as he told himself to ignore the building pleasure. The thrill of it--to submit, to someone as strong as Deadlock. To someone who’d once been _Drift._

_‘Do not show your own pleasure.’_ He snapped at himself. _‘Do not let one inch of it into your face or field.’_

Deadlock gave him a winning smile, showing off his fangs as though he could hear Ratchet’s thoughts. “Good medic.” He praised, his field mocking. Alarmingly gentle touches brushed down Ratchet’s exposed array, making the medic’s vents hitching as they did so. He tried not to tense--tried to relax, knowing that Deadlock was dragging this out for kicks.

He barely stopped the flinch when Deadlock circled his valve cover.

One tap, then another. Then a hard slap that Ratchet had been expecting, but made him jump anyway.

“I don’t ask twice.” Deadlock told him, optics still drilled into Ratchet’s own.

“Fuck you.” The medic snarled back. Alien insults were a staple of Ratchet’s language, if only because some could manage to sound so, so much cruder than anything Cybertron had ever come up with. Judging by the hate that flashed over Deadlock’s features, it’d landed just as intended.

Two more slaps, and Ratchet’s valve cover popped open practically on its own, the medic hissing in defeat.

Worse than that,  was his own response. Ratchet _knew_ he shouldn’t be taking pleasure in this, in being _taken._ His body couldn’t differentiate between when it was done with a friend vs a foe though, and so he was forced to try and focus on the anger to keep him present instead of losing himself in lust.

_‘This is Deadlock.’_ He reminded himself harshly. _‘This isn’t safe.’_ Then repeated it, again and again, until it was a mantra he could sink into.

Ratchet truly struggled now, as he desperately fought to hide his arousal. It was a losing battle, they all knew it was a losing battle, but Deadlock let him fight it in his grasp anyway, chuckling while he watched.

Two fingers lined themselves up with Ratchet’s valve, sliding against one of Ratchet’s thighs to let him know they were coming. The CMO’s strength still wasn’t there, his struggles more restrained twitching than anything. He couldn’t even fully kick a foot, the stun gun’s effects acting like physical restraints.

He couldn’t stop Deadlock, couldn’t even hide the pulse of lust in his field when the gunner’s fingers breached his valve.

A delighted look crossed Deadlock’s features as he was met with no resistance.

Fingers twisted, their owner pushing them deeper at a maddeningly slow pace. A hard pace would’ve been easier to fight against or even ignore--but this was almost _loving_ it was so gentle _._ Careful _._

_Precise._

 Ratchet’s own arousal betrayed him, making him so slick the lubricant dripped out his valve and into the ‘Cons hand.

“See?” Deadlock said--to the room, not him, which was the exact moment Ratchet remembered there were other mechs watching them--watching _him_ \--”At their core, they enjoy this.” He pulled his fingers out, hand raising to show the lubricant that coated them. He looked back to Ratchet, making sure he had the medic’s attention as he put the offending fingers in his mouth and _sucked._

They came out with a pop and a flicker of glossa on Deadlock’s lips. “So wet. _Wanting._ You’ll be screaming for me soon, medic.”

Several fields alit at that--some with lust, but a greater number with disgust. Ratchet wasn’t surprised. Despite the stories, rape wasn’t something done casually in either armies. That Deadlock did it, with no opposition and with such ease in his field, showed both his brutality and his control.

The reasons for his starring role as Megatron’s pet General.

Movement back at his valve forced Ratchet back to the present, and he barely had a moment to register what was going where before Deadlock’s fingers were back in him and setting the brutal pace he’d first expected. Ratchet fought it--fought the lust and the pleasure, fought the way his valve wanted to clench down on those fingers. The way his hips wanted to rock to meet them instead of push away.

Entirely ignored the way Deadlock’s field overwhelmed him, filled with the Con’s lust and mockery and something Ratchet could name but refused to.

Not here.

It didn’t matter what he wanted. Deadlock knew a mech’s body. Clever fingers were ferreting out Ratchet’s weak spots quickly and it wasn’t long before Ratchet’s fight against his pleasure was painfully visible. Charge sparked in the gaps of his armor, fans spinning rapidly to combat the heat.

“Give in, Ratchet.” Deadlock ordered. He leaned down, licked a path on the medic’s abdominal armor. Dug his fangs in at the end to drag twin points of _heat_ across scratched, white armor.

Ratchet clenched his jaw instead, arching to try and escape the fingers invading him. Deadlock abruptly stopped, one arm keeping Ratchet down while the other hand’s fingers curled up. He stared up from where he was hunched over, red optics glowing. Pushed his fingers against the inner node and not even Primus himself could’ve stopped Ratchet from gasping at that. His hips bucked, out of his control.

Deadlock took the fingers away, only to press them right back, blasting pleasure through Ratchet’s array. “ _Submit.”_ He commanded, tone dark, pulsing, _arousing_ , and Ratchet lost himself.

His orgasm ripped through him as harshly as Deadlock had.

He lay on the floor afterwords, vents panting. Deadlock merely sat up and watched him, smirk on his face. Ratchet struggled to get control of his vocalizer, struggled to tell him off, but could barely raise his own head.

The chance slipped his grasp as Deadlock stood, fingers dripping with Ratchet’s lubricant as he pulled them out.

“I think that’s a good enough demonstration.” He said, and Ratchet had no idea if he was talking to him or to the rest of the room. “I’m taking him back to my quarters. Signal, encode the information we gained today and send it through the proper channels. Border, set course for the _Nemesis_. Take the long way.” The last part was said as though it were an afterthought, as though Deadlock wasn’t hauling Ratchet to his pedes and draping the medic over his shoulder as he spoke.

“And those who need it,” He added, field full of smug superiority. “-can take a break.”

He started the walk back to his habsuite without a second glance, holding Ratchet like a trophy won.

Which was exactly what Ratchet was.

xXx

Locks engaged on Deadlock’s door as the gunner lowered Ratchet onto his berth. He scanned the medic as soon as he was down, lust wiped from Deadlock entirely.

Something clicked. Then another, and another.

“Paranoid enough, kid?” Ratchet asked the ceiling, but Deadlock waited for the fourth and final click before speaking.

“I am when it’s you.” He said, then sank to his knees before the berth. “ _Ratchet.”_

“S’alright.” Ratchet said, as Deadlock’s smug, powerful field was replaced with one drenched in guilt. “S’alright. You did good.”

“I hurt you.” Drift protested, because he was Drift now, not Deadlock. “Primus Ratchet the way you acted--if I hadn’t known--if I hadn’t _felt it--!”_

“Drift.” Ratchet ordered, commanding one arm to move and just managing to get it to bounce off Drift’s shoulders. The gunner grabbed it, gripped it, like a lifeline. “Come here.”

His sparkmate vented heavily, head bowed, bringing Ratchet’s hand to his cheek and resting it there. It took a hard tug on their bond to get the speedster to move, and another one for him to _hurry the frag up._

Drift gave a near hysterical-laugh as his systems settled, his half of the bond pulsing back. Shooting love at Ratchet’s typical, grumpy demands and how the medic expected them to be filled, then and there. They’d been in contact like this from the second Ratchet had stepped on the ship. Connected, through the bond, each side wide open.

Not that it had made the scene any easier for Drift.

He crawled over Ratchet, careful of the other mech, and laid gently beside him, still somehow keeping his grip on the medic’s hands. He initiated another scan even though he knew the state of his partner--Ratchet hadn’t been seriously wounded even though he looked it. The damage to his plating and paint was all on the surface, the stun gun’s lasting effects finally releasing the mech and leaving only a general soreness in his lines. Even Deadlock’s machinations hadn’t caused any lasting harm.

As far as captives went, Ratchet was relatively okay.

That didn’t ease Drift’s panic, or his regret.

Even if this had been planned. Even if this had been Ratchet’s idea, a way to get the desperately needed information to Autobot High Command.

Ratchet rolled his optics at his Conjux, sending the fact that _yes,_ this whole mess was in fact his idea, and that he’d known what was coming over their bond. Drift as Deadlock was beginning to lose some of his own clout, with certain higher ups taking notice of how he’d been (carefully) refusing to kill enemies. His reputation had gotten to where it had been due to his supposed berserker nature and his brutality--things that, while true, were both carefully manufactured.

Something only a few knew about, now. Ratchet wasn’t even sure if anyone beyond himself, Jazz and Prime even knew Deadlock was a double agent anymore. There had been so many casualties, so many lost. Few could help aid Deadlock’s reputation, and the mech had essentially been on his own for several hundred years, now. It wasn’t something they had expected, but then, they had never expected the war to last this long when they’d realized how far up Decepticon command Drift could climb.

Drift had had the opportunity at the beginning--one he’d taken ruthless advantage of once it became obvious the direction Megatron was taking the Decepticons. The fact he and Ratchet were bonded had allowed him to communicate in ways no other agent could. A risk they both deemed was worth the reward, even when Prime protested.

(Even if It meant they had to be apart for far longer than they’d ever been together.  Even if it meant Drift had been forced to “develop” a fascination for Ratchet, one that allowed him to capture and stalk and generally be near the medic. That allowed them to play games like this, so Drift could transfer all the information he had to Ratchet and then aid him in his escape.

Even if it meant Ratchet had to comfort his sparkmate from pretending to rape him in front of the Decepticons he commanded.)

It always made Drift feel worse, to be the one to break after such a scene. Despite knowing Ratchet _enjoyed_ it, despite knowing the ’bot had honestly fought to cull the sheer enjoyment of being taking by his sparkmate in front of a bunch of ‘Cons. Despite being very intimate with Ratchet’s very long list of kinks, several of which they had just played out.

Ratchet knew all that. Knew the guilt, the embarrassment, the desperate wish for this war to end so it could stop. Held Drift through it, as the feelings hit.

Whispered that it was going to be okay even though he didn’t always believe that himself. Even if Ratchet himself was hiding his guilt about the crew who’d been killed so he could pull this off…

“That’s on me, not you.” Drift said tiredly, into his shoulder.

Ratchet snorted through his vents. He didn’t have to voice his protest.

“My ship. My crew.” Drift argued, burying his face closer into Ratchet. “My responsibility.”

Another snort. “You can’t take responsibilities for _individuals._ ” He said, knowing how thick the irony was in that statement and ignoring it with all the skills he’d gained as CMO.

He’d been the one to get those mechs killed after all. They’d come on this mission not knowing he was supposed to get captured. Not knowing that in doing so, the highest ranked Autobot spy was passing on critical information.

Drift, of course, called him out on it immediately. “Neither can you.”

Ratchet hummed at that, and the gunner knew the end of a conversation when he heard one. He didn’t want to fight--wasn’t going to fight, either. Not when they had such little time together.

Exactly 23 hours, if the stupid human clock Jazz insisted on going by was any indication.

( _“Pacific Standard Time?” Drift had questioned, the last time he’d spoken to his boss. “Who uses that?”_

_“Exactly.” Jazz replied with a wink._ )

“Hey.” Ratchet said suddenly, turning over to look Drift in the optics. “Look at me.”

Drift did.

A hand rose, slowly and a little shaky. Drift helped it, used his own grip as support. Let Ratchet touch his face once more, cup his cheek.

“I love you.” Ratchet said, sinking the truth of it through their bond. “I will always love you. No matter what happens.”

Drift pushed into the medic’s hand, pushing back as much love as he could muster. “I love you too.” He said, abruptly resolving to enjoy the moment.

Neither knew when they’d get another.

Something pulsed in Ratchet’s field, unashamed. Drift quirked an optic at it.

“Tell me when you’re okay to go for another round.” He said, field jokingly prodding at lazily building lust.

Called out, Ratchet laughed, but agreed.

They had 23 hours.

They’d make the most of them.


End file.
